And They Had Cake
by PixieKindOfCrazy
Summary: Set immediately after TLD. Sherlock, despite the birthday cake with John and Mrs. Hudson, is still out of sorts. He has a unviewed message sitting on his phone from just the person he knows he should talk to. John said to take advantage of her being alive. And maybe he will. T for swearing.


**A/n:** _Ok so….this originally was going to go in a slightly more sexy direction. And then it became deep. Sue me. I feel like I really want to do really emotional, wordy, well done smut for them now but I just don't have the brain focus at the moment. But if there are any ideas for prompts for these two, smutty or otherwise, please send them to me. I love some Adlock ideas. Enjoy. Set immediately after The Lying Detective._

 _How was the cake?-IA_

That was certainly not what he expected the text to read. And furthermore, it probably isn't what she really means to ask. With the Woman, there's always a code. A subtext. They say more than they say, more than they type.

But still, he feels his brows furrow, confused. He wasn't going to ask how she knew that John had dragged him out for cake. He had long since stopped asking questions like 'How did she…' with her. No, what confused him was why she had not shown her face. Not that he desired for her to. Absurd idea. But if she knew about the cake, he can presume she was watching them, meaning she has to be in London. On the rare happenstance that they both end up in the same city on his birthday, she usually shows up at 221 B, in his thinking chair, asking him to have dinner with her. He never says yes. They had dinner in Karachi. And Montengro. Possibly once in Wycombe. But he never gives in and says yes when she specifically asks. It has to be, at least partly, his idea.

But every time he says yes, his head is left spinning afterwards. All this science and research done to figure out how the human body reacts to sex. Physically. But he has not read nearly enough on how it affects the mind. He would compare her affect to a drug. Not cocaine, no. That leaves you feeling wiped out afterwards. Destroyed. More like ecstasy, ironic as it sounds. Because it leaves your senses vibrating and anticipating more.

So one could easily deduce why he had not responded to that question. The confusion of why she sent it instead of appearing. The impossible deductions about what she actually meant by that question. Any path he could take concerning the text all lead down very distracting, very frustrating roads. Tempting, but…he had other pressing concerns. Or he thought he did. In his present state of withdrawl and being babysat, he couldn't seem to remember what case he was supposed to be focusing on. Oh yes, the serial killer. Done. John came back.

He walks past the skull on the mantel, old buddy, to his room and sits down on his grey, rumpled sheets. His phone is in his hand and the screen has her text pulled up, but he doesn't know how that happened. He sighs at himself. He's found that sometimes his hands go on autopilot, starting to answer her before he's decided if he wants to.

He lays back in bed and his fingers hover over his phone. He kept having the annoying desire, itching at him, to talk to someone. For them to tell them he was not a monster. He was human and made a mistake. But he also wanted to be assured that being human was also alright. That he hadn't lost his touch, wasn't a common person. He couldn't even stand the idea. He had considered John, for half a second. But John was the epicenter. He was too close to the disaster. Molly was coming to watch him soon, but she was almost too sympathetic. She would indulge him too much. No, he needed a mix between the two. Not angry, not overly kind. But honest. And someone that knew and understood the way his brain worked.

That's why his fingers kept going back and forth between typing out a reply and throwing his phone to the floor. He knew who he wanted to talk to. She was the only person he really could talk to about this. But it would open so many doors he didn't want to walk through right now. He was not emotionally capable at the moment.

 _Sentiment,_ he cursed at himself as he sighed and called uncle, typing out a reply.

 _Vanilla with cheap frosting. But edible-SH._

He wasn't sure how she would interpret that. Or if she would even reply. Sometimes she answered rapidly. Sometimes she never answered at all. He assumed it depended on her schedule. And whether she was running for her life.

But the moan sounded out in his silent bedroom, cutting through the flat.

 _Does John not know you don't like vanilla?-IA_

He pauses at that, maybe just a tad surprised, an uncommon emotion for Sherlock. He does not remember ever mentioning his cake preferences to her. And he remembers everything he has said to her. Not nostalgically, but the way a computer copies files to a back up drive to keep them safe.

 _No. How is it that you do?-SH_

 _We had dinner on your birthday once. Do you not remember?-IA_

He can tell when she means dinner and when she means _dinner_. They never had _dinner_ on his birthday. The memory floods his mind palace now. They were in a run-down French restaurant, right outside of London, after he had first showed his face again in the country after being presumed dead. They were trying not to be seen. The waiter had come around with a desert cart. He had been feeling particularly hungry that night so he picked up a slice of cake.

 _You got chocolate cake. I had crème brule.-IA._

He raises one eyebrow to himself, impressed.

 _That is an astute observation, Miss Adler.-SH_

 _I had already guessed from our other dinners that you don't like vanilla things, though-IA._

He has to put the phone down and pinch the bridge of his nose, attempting to prevent a headache. Just as she showed her intellect, she had to fire back with innuendo as well. That time, he knew, she did not mean dinner.

 _You were not in my chair when I returned-SH._

 _Did you want me to be?-IA_

 _It was an observation of a broken pattern. You are in London. But you didn't come to violate my chair.-SH._

 _I can violate whatever you like.-IA_

 _Avoidance is not appealing.-SH_

Some time passed before her next reply.

 _I am giving you time. To detox.-IA_

 _I would rather have a conversation.-SH_

He had to curse himself as the three little dots appeared on his phone, indicating she was hesitating about replying. He had never openly told her that he needed her to just….talk to. She usually came to him. And even then, half of what they spoke was code.

But sure enough, her reply came in not seconds after his doubt.

 _Oh whatever about? I'm sure the great detective has all the answers.-IA_

 _Maybe, as horrendous as it is to consider, sometimes I am human._

 _Of course you are.-IA_

Now that shocked him. So much so that he had to put down his phone. Those words on the screen haunted him slightly…..what did she mean? She, of all people, knew how disastrous he was at emotions. He swallowed thickly, unused to the very uncomfortable tightening in his throat. He had heard it described as panic….but what was he afraid of?

Finally, on a crazy whim, he decided it would be better to just call her for this. And so for the first time, her ringtone for him rang out. Not his text alert. But the ringtone of an incoming call from Sherlock Holmes. _Oh, a girl could be so lucky at times,_ she thought to herself.

She picked up the phone with a red manicured hand and couldn't suppress the curl of her smirk, "Mr. Holmes."

"Irene," he sighed, her first clue that something was amiss with him. Seriously. The only time she remembers him saying her first name by itself was during _dinner_. It was Ms. Adler in public. It was a disgruntled _Woman_ when he was upset with her. It was Irene Adler when he was proud. But only ever just Irene during intimate times….

So, quite appropriately, she frowned at his response, "Sherlock? What is the matter?"

He let out a humorless laugh, "Surely, you have updated yourself with the goings on of my life. Or your sources have. You know what they like after all."

His voice cut, hurting her because he was hurting, "Don't. Darling, you know deflection won't work on me."

He snorts in disbelief and he can almost hear her responding eyebrow raise of annoyance.

"You have never successfully lied to me, Sherlock."

He wanted to deny it, to snap at her out of grief. But ultimately, he was too smart for that. He knew she was right. They were too similar to get away with lying to one another. One side of the coin cannot deceive the other.

"What did you mean? When I said I might be human, you said that of course I was," he sounded slightly bewildered. He was hiding it with a gruff tone, but his voice was colored with a hint of something else.

She refrained from rolling her eyes as she would normally. This was serious. And rare. Something she understood that Sherlock did not. She had to explain it carefully to him.

"I have always known you were human, darling. You act like it is a recent development in your life, but Sherlock Holmes, you have always been just a man. Brilliant, maddening, slightly crazy. But human none the less. Perhaps more so than any other man."

"No," he spoke slowly, "That's….not sensible. I have never quite understood all the pesky human emotions clouding all the people around me. With John and….with Mary….I started to. They were my friends."

There was conviction in his voice. And pain. She noted the pain. It must be why he called.

"….Dear, why do you do what you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you solve crimes?"

He laughed at that, "Because-the game…the thrill of the chase, the high of the mystery and deductions. I enjoy it. You know that."

She laughed at him, like the way a mother would shake their head at a child failing to tie their shoes, "No. I'm sorry, but no. Well, yes, that's a part of it, but….with your brain, Sherlock, you could have been….a Nobel Prize winning scientist….a world renowned neurosurgeon….but you CHOSE to be a detective."

He blinks, his brain trying to process her point, "Yes….I did. And?"

She sighs, almost frustrated that he isn't getting it, "There is only one reason someone solves crimes, Sherlock Holmes…"

He did not respond.

"To help people," she finally explained, "You have one of the greatest minds of our age and you chose to use it simply to help. Not to invent new technologies, not to get fame or money. But to get justice for the wronged in this world. And, I'm sorry, Sherlock, as much as it may ruin your image you have of yourself….that is the most human desire a man can have."

Ah…he understood the panic now. Calling Irene meant he would have to face a mirror, stop lying to himself. If he wasn't quite human, abnormal….then he wouldn't have to feel the loss of his friend as intensely. But now that she'd let loose his secret, he had to feel it.

"….You know, don't you?" His voice was low.

She almost wanted to play dumb and ask 'know what?', but it would be insulting him, "….Not the details, but, yes. You lost a friend. Not John, or you'd be on the floor. But someone almost as close….I surmise his wife?"

He swallowed the bile coming up his throat and nodded uselessly-she couldn't see, "Yes. Mary. She was, uhm…" he trailed off, overwhelmed and somehow still sounding dignified. The posh boy.

"You don't have to tell-"

"She died protecting me, took a bullet, as it were…"

She inhaled sharply, stunned by how much his voice broke during the admission, "Sherlock, I…"

"Please, Irene, you're too smart to be sorry for something you had nothing to do with."

She scoffed, almost offended, "I am not sorry for her death. How could I be? I didn't know her. I am sorry for your pain. I do know you. And…knowing you, you must not be handling it well. You said you and John were friends….are you not know?"

"That's the best part," he smiled without joy, "It was my fault. You see, I swore to protect them. I promised Mary that I would keep all harm from her and John and the small Watson…"

She scowled at his guilt, almost mad at him for it, "Dear god, don't put that on yourself! What did you expect yourself to do? See her coming to shield you and shove her out of the way in that split second?"

"No, Irene, but I invited her! I kept inviting her into dangerous situations with me! Because she was clever and I liked having her around and she helped me!"

Irene pulled away from the phone, taking a deep breath to calm herself. He was raw. A raw genius is never a good thing.

"I know, Sherlock. Trust me, I've…dealt with similar situations. But you didn't force her. If she didn't want to endanger herself, she wouldn't have gone with you. From what I hear of Mary Watson, she was the type that lived off that danger. Like you. That's probably why you liked her. No matter what you did, she probably would have ended up in another dangerous place, of her own accord."

"You didn't…no, you didn't know her. She had a daughter. She wanted a safe, normal life with her. And with John. And I wanted to give them that…"

"Has anyone ever told you that you can't always get what you want?"

He actually laughed aloud. He couldn't believe she'd achieved that. She smiled in relief and decided that the rest of the conversation needed to be in person, "Mr. Holmes, do you want to have dinner?"

And they had cake.


End file.
